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HollowdaysShortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.

DrownBlackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown

PorchBleak and cold, November coming like a freight train
Sorry little colored lights twinkle above the city
The heart sees what the eyes miss
The eyes miss what the heart wants
The cycle never ends
I want an early summer afternoon
I want a house with a porch, with
Windchimes and hanging vines
Potted plants. Colored rocks and shells
I want stained glass windows. Dreamcatchers
I want the floorboards painted gray, the house white with black trim
I want willows in the yard
I want heaven.

Falling AwayIt's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Unable to stay vertical, no horizontal to catch me
Blindly boring white days falling in and out of sleep
Waiting for something to end and something to begin

Talking about white things and birds and death stars
The location of heaven, the door that won't open
The hollow sounds of the memory gears turning
The falling, falling, endlessly through a sea of white

(Did I mention the white nothingness? Of course, yes,
It's all I have left to talk about, the falling through white)
It's not the falling behind, it's the falling away
Catch me.

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

The Wind-DownI'm tired, a clock winding down in an abandoned sickroom
You're vibrant, a sunspot, a splash of color, a dream
That I dream when I'm fevered and sawboned

I'm a ghost already, a shadow that crossed your path
You sing your pain, and heal your space in the world
Bringing light, laughter, dizzying falls from great heights

We sing our pain together, sometimes, and I almost live
But the clock is ticking, the sirens call, and you
Cannot bring your brightness into the dark places

I'm tired, and the crows gather in anticipation
Perhaps they'll carry me to your beautiful world
And release me with the Christmas snow

Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalk
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled

It was always summer, there.

Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune

It was always summer, then.

ClockThe clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking
Only owls can save you from the crows, but the owls are all dead
You trade your minutes for magic beans, but they only stretch
The minutes into hours, while you wait, expecting something more

Forever and never are the same in the schematics of a life
The crows constant cawing and pecking remind you that you live
The touching against a friendly soul now and then makes you want to continue
The clock is ticking the clock is ticking the clock is ticking

Reason flies out of the window with a shiny trophy in its beak
Love falls into the earth and becomes dust, unforgotten, unassuaged

OctoberOctober; the world is dying
Going out in a blaze of glory
Not the slow painful birth into Spring
But a quick descent into Winter
Wind howls through fiery leaves
Change. Death. Mourning.
A wreath made from twigs, dried leaves and orange berries
For my Autumn girl.
And the days rush headlong into night.

Sunflower Field BurningStalks of sun ablaze turn heads down, shriveling;
Smoke filled sky, blotting out the very thing they would see;
I pound the wall in helpless rage.

Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skies
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams

except this one.

This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
at nothing.

As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.

I'm going outside to make a grass angel.

Code BlueConcrete and asphalt, brick and steel, flesh and bone
Tall buildings with window-eyes, watching traffic lights
flashing blue

Walk through the wind to the end of the street with me
Somewhere up ahead the streetlights dim, the power lines
fade into nothing

Don't worry; the blue bus, the black chariot, the white trucks
are all lined up there to take us to our destination
Rest and let the driver take over

We've walked far, been scarred, but filled with joy as well
The windows close their sleepy eyes, goodbye
Here we go

A siren's two-tone wail coordinates with the flashing blue lights behind
Unnoticed, the lights go out and the siren

Nothingi have no new words
no new ideas, nothing but that same
bleakness, blackness, bare-boned sadness
open-eyed madness
nothing new to say

the brainworms burrow deep, itching
screeching, screaming blind pain
bloodrip, mindmatter, black tie gag
guiltscattered, smoke, blackash and slag

empty fields should be filled with flowers
ghosts can't dance, and must be softly turned
away, into the mist of memory's urn
where trees breathe and shells sigh
down in the hallow

Two CrowsIts dark again this morning; eight o'clock, and the sun refuses to shine
Night recedes, dawn stays, mimicking twilight
Windblown, grey, it can only be called "day" because of the hour.

I think about the fading murals of Jim Morrison at Venice Beach
I think about the friends I've never seen who live in my computer
I think about how harsh my cigarette is, how bitter the coffee

(I think that I spend too much time thinking and not enough living)

But the grey life isn't living, it's waiting for the sun, and who knows when
The sun will come?
I put on my coat and go outside for a smoke, hoping to touch something
Not bleeding grey

There ar

Lambchops and RazorbladesLamb-chops and razorblades, barbed wire dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Shadows eat the light, he eats the shadows
Blackheart bound with rough twine, engorged;

with sweet dreams turned to sour mash
with fear of echoes on twilit playgrounds
with summer's sudden screendoor slam ending
with attic wigstands cooing sick-sweet things

Head-cheese and shrapnel, red lipstick dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Moths eat his clothes, he eats the holes
Blackheart bound but bursting out, engorged;

with severed birdwings falling from the heights
with rotten fruit boiling in fly-filled bins
with spineless slithering

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Old Bricksold bricks, different shades of reddish brown
mortared together around broken glass windows
this is history, this is poetry, this has meaning

pale autumn sunlight glints against cracked panes
shadows move slowly across the building's face
this was us, yesterday, or a hundred years ago

crows sit on the power lines and pigeons on the roof
waiting for something important only to them
this is now, this is life, this is a dream

i see the ghosts inside of all the people who died
inside this aged shelter with metal gutters and wooden doors
this is mercy, this is sorrow, this is remembrance

hold my hand and walk with me, i cannot leave a

Epitaph"Eaten by small dogs" was what she wanted on her tombstone
but her only tombstone is the Rock River
I write her epitaph on a Burger King wrapper,
crumble and throw it in.

Deja VuDays like these
when the world is still and quiet
When the sun won't shine, but the clouds won't give up their rain

In-between days
A soft glow underpainting grey skies
The days that ghosts like to whisper in your ear

About past loves, and loss, and changing seasons

Somewhere there's an early-autumn sun casting long shadows
On near-deserted backroads that I walk for miles
Unaware of what the future holds, dreaming simple dreams
I prick up my ears and sniff the wind like a dog
At a flash passing glimpse of this far day, today

From there I see here
For a quick moment soon gone
And forget for forty years
Until this day
When I s

ChantSallow shop salt and slime scummy squid
she doesn't think she did what she did
manatees man-babies man up and say
threefold square one will nighten the day

blither and blather she still will not drop
the sun's sweating bullets and cowing the crop
archangels singing in spanish tell lies
withering baubles keep rays from her eyes

will she or won't she or will it be done
recognize only the portents square one
making a bath now in birdhouse of clouds
who's to say what when the why drizzles down

and what of yourself sitting high on the shelf
will you draw near or play what you're dealt
who is she anyway, phoenix of faux night
to say

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Symphony

by =Bark, Sep 28, 2011, 5:55:13 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

It's the measured breathing of someone on oxygen, here in the small hours. I don't know where it's coming from. I hear it beneath the white noise of the air conditioner.
It's the faint jumpiness of a phone ringing, a monitor flatlining on a loop in my memory.
It's the droning in my own ears, the hum-buzz of the tinnitus, the electricity and insect sounds.
It's the whistle of a train, much louder than it should be. It soars over the top of it all. There are no trains nearby.
It's four AM again. The silence is not golden.

Symphonyby =Bark

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

It's the four AM bloodletting again.

~~love 0 0~~

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*prettyflour Feb 6, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This has been featured in my journal!

[link]

=Bark Feb 6, 2012 Writer

Thank you!

*BeyondJen Dec 7, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Your writing captures feelings in the truest sense.
You bring noises into my head and panic into my heart.
I'm sure this is only possible when you've experienced such. And for that, I'm sorry.
Wonderful writing though, Ron.

=Bark Dec 7, 2011 Writer

Thank you, Jen.

*BeyondJen Dec 7, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

My pleasure, Ron.

~RequiemsandReveries Oct 11, 2011

Damn Ron, sorry you experience this. Not sorry that some damned great writing comes from it. Wishing you peace and rest my friend.

=Bark Oct 12, 2011 Writer

Thanks very much. A little rest to build up my strength to keep going would be nice!

~TheLunaLily Oct 8, 2011 Writer

I hear you. Power to the insomniacs!

~Metatetron Oct 4, 2011

mine I call, the three am brain bites

=Bark Oct 4, 2011 Writer

I have to say, it does seem to be a creative period, or at least lends the inspiration. What would I write about if everything in the world was peachy? I'd be out of business!

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